


across the ages

by sowerberry_25 (emilily_25)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, World War II, stucky: the world's longest slow burn love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilily_25/pseuds/sowerberry_25
Summary: "Steve Rogers is a good man."An exploration of Steven Grant Rogers over the years, through the eyes of one James Buchanan Barnes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers - Relationship
Kudos: 14





	across the ages

Steve Rogers is a good man.

An eight year old James Barnes comes to know this very quickly, when he wanders into the junkyard on his way home from school one chilly day. He and a couple of the fellas from class swing by here every once in a while, picking around at some of the piles and occasionally stumbling upon a gold mine.

Ma and Pa hate it when he comes here, when he wades around in the filth, as they say. Older kids will loiter around these parts too, and they’ll get into all sorts of trouble that James oughta avoid. Or, well, that’s what Ma says, but James’s never really seen anything besides some dirty knick-knacks and the occasional hobo.

Still, his Ma and Pa are rarely wrong, and he’d hate to set a bad example for Becca. Besides, Mrs. Robinson’s been giving so much more homework lately, he barely has time to play with his jacks at home, let alone fumble around in the salvage yards. It’s hardly even on purpose when he steers clear of them day in and day out.

Today, though, he’s waltzing in without ever really meaning to.

Mr. Henderwick let them all out a bit early, so James gets to take his sweet time heading home. He’s munching on some candy Lenny Jackson snagged from his aunt’s shop, because she always gets the good stuff, when he nears the entrance of the yard. In all honesty, James’s not even thinking about going in, too fixated on the exploding sweetness in his mouth to even consider it.

That’s when he hears a shout.

Now, from the moment he could toddle, James’s been told to never run into trouble. Everyone around ‘im’ll always be starting a ruckus, his Ma told him, but that doesn’t mean he’s gotta join ‘em. And well, that’s all fine and dandy, but whoever’s screaming sure doesn’t sound like they’re doing all too good, and how’s James supposed to ignore _that_?

It’s the excuse he tells himself as he finds himself walking into the dump with nothing but some guts and a mouthful of Goldenberg’s Minis.

It doesn’t take all too long for him to figure out where he needs to go. There’s not a whole lot more shouting, but he hears grunts and conversations and the occasional clang of scrap metal the whole walk through the yard. Attuning his ears to the sounds around him, James treks through the yard with as much stealth as he can muster, sleuthing around until he turns a corner and spots them.

Three boys, from what he can tell. Two standing, about James’s height, and the other sitting down on the ground by their feet.

Except, no, he’s not just sitting, James quickly realizes. He’s slouched down and collapsed on a pile of parts and rubble, his body all crumpled and curled up as the other two boys loom over him tauntingly. They’re laughing, and it only takes James an extra second to piece two and two together when he sees the scuff marks on their shoes and the blood on the other kid’s face.

_Sixth graders._

James thinks he recognizes the older kids’ faces, but he can’t for the love of him remember their names. It doesn’t matter, though, because one of them looks like he’s gearing up for another kick, and that poor kid on the ground just looks so hurt already and James can’t just let it _happen—_

He’s not even thinking when he grabs a nearby can, turns heel, and chucks it as far as he can.

The clang it makes from all the way across the yard is so loud it makes him wince, and he’s only just able to hide behind a pile of junk when he hears the loud _‘what was that?’_ from behind. It’s almost a miracle that his longshot attempt actually works, because just a few seconds later the boys are stomping over in the opposite direction, following the sound and leaving their crumpled victim behind them.

James should probably leave at this point, but even his Ma’s advice doesn’t ring clear and well in his head when he’s hyped up on sugar and adrenaline like this.

So, instead, he peaks out of his hiding spot and waddles over the still-collapsed boy over in the rubbish heap. He’s barely moved since the bullies left, and James has a vague thought that he might be dead. That’d certainly be no good.

Luckily for him, the other boy still seems to be breathing, based on the labored rise and fall of his chest. His chin is tucked into his chest, hiding his face, so James looks to his skinny limbs and dirty blonde hair instead to try and trigger some recognition. He’s drawing a blank, though, unable to recall anything about this kid. If he’s from the neighborhood, James sure hasn’t seen him.

“Hey,” he says as he, against his better judgment, kneels down to shake the kid’s shoulders. Those sixth graders could come back at any time, his brain tells him, and he really needs to be getting home. He needs to go, but, but… “Hey!”

“What.”

The gruff grumble’s not loud at all, but it somehow makes James recoil in surprise anyway. He flinches back a little bit as the other boy finally unfurls himself and sits up. He wipes his bloody nose with his already-blood sleeve, and James quickly finds himself pinned in place by piercing blue eyes glowering up at him.

“Ar…are you, are you okay?” James stammers out after a good minute’s pause.

The kid just glares and wipes his nose again.

There’s not a single thing his Ma or Pa’s told him that could help him now, besides just standing up and hightailing it outta here. Except, he’s already dug himself into this hole, and he might be just a little too stubborn to dig his way out.

“We should go,” he tries again, making a show of glancing behind him. “They might come back.”

It’s a genuine worry, as far as he’s concerned. Upperclassmen are never all that nice, as far as James is aware, and they certainly won’t be if they find out that James sent them searching for nothing. James is tough—he’s beaten his whole class in arm wrestling, even Johnny Meyers!—but this sure is one fight he doesn’t want to hedge his bets in. Especially not when he sees the condition of their previous victim.

But the kid doesn’t move.

James grits his teeth and exhales loudly. He’s half a second away from throwing in the towel and calling it quits. It’s not his job to go around helping lanky nitwits around town, and he’s gotta get home anyway. If the other boy doesn’t want his help, he can go shove it, James thinks as he stuffs his hand into his trouser pockets into a dramatic huff.

Then he feels it.

He pauses as his fingers dance over the items in his pocket and considers his options for a moment. He should just go, he tells himself, but instead he finds himself drawing a long bar out of his pocket, extends his arm, and holding the object out for the other boy to see.

“Want a Charleston Chew? They’re good.”

The kid’s silent, staring at him with that same sorta muted rage in his eyes as before, a coldness James has never really seen before. There’s no heat in his anger, not like when Ma screams at him for breaking a plate or Pa threatens to get his belt out for talking back. No, this is frozen fury, and James nearly flinches under the icy stare. His outstretched arm slowly starts to retreat as his face twists into a sort of timid discomfort that only gets worse as the seconds tick on by.

“Uh, sorry, ya just looked—”

James can’t finish his awkward escape, though, because before he could even finish a sentence, the candy bar’s being snatched out of his hand in the blink of an eye. He watches with eyes wide as saucers as the runt yanks it out of his hands roughly, with so much force James is worried he tore something. He uses the same sort of violence to tear the wrapper off, and James stares in awe at how he shoves the chocolate into his gullet and chomps off a bite without even a second of pause.

Compared to his sudden, almost rushed procuring of the bar, though, the kid’s oddly slow about chewing. The anger on his face has melted into a sort of impassive blankness, and James isn’t too sure he likes that much more. The kid seems emotionless, if not maybe a bit pensive, as he chews slowly, and James puts his hopes in that thoughtful hint when the kid finally, _finally_ , swallows the bite down.

Then, he waits.

“…’s yummy.”

James beams.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The kid takes another bite, slower and more methodical this time. James waits for him to chew and swallow again, before trying to talk once more.

“Why were they picking on you?”

That glare’s back again, but only for a split second before the kid’s biting into the bar again.

“Not picking on me,” he says with his mouth full. “’t was a fight.”

 _Didn’t look like a fight to me_ , James thinks, but he manages to hold the words back.

“Why’d ya fight them?” he asks instead, and the other boy shrugs.

“They pick on people.” _Like you?_ James’s brain supplies, but again, he bites his tongue. “Think they’re better than others just because they’re older. Saw them picking on some kids down at the local temple, wanted to teach ‘em a lesson.”

James blinks.

“You a Jew?” he asks.

He doesn’t entirely know what the word means himself, just that his folks say it plenty, and they never sound all too happy when they do. Something about them not going to church, worshipping God wrong, or something like that. He doesn’t know why it makes them so angry—Lina Bernstein’s a Jew, and she’s plenty nice. Used to share her crayons with him all the time, back in kindergarten.

“Nah,” the other boy says. “Catholic, though ma Mammy says I shouldn’t tell people that.”

James nods slightly. Pa doesn’t like the Catholics either, he thinks. Maybe he should pay more attention during Bible study.

“Why’re you fighting off kids at temples, then?” he asks instead, settling down to sit beside the other boy now that he’s fairly sure he won’t get punched.

“I don’t care ‘bout that sorta thing,” the other grumbles, taking another bite of chocolate. “I just don’t like bullies.”

The answer surprises James, and he can’t pinpoint why. Something about this frumpy, skinny kid going out of his way and tryna punch out some middle schoolers for being rude just seems so _strange_. And yet, looking at the other kid right now, something about it just makes sense too.

“Huh,” James says dumbly, and a quiet falls over them.

The sixth graders don’t come back, thankfully, but James still a little on-edge while the other boy finishes up his chocolate bar. When he does, he crumples up the wrapper and tosses it to the side, and when he turns to look at James this time, his eyes are twinkling.

“You got anymore where that came from?” he asks, and James grins again.

He’s more than enthusiastic as he empties his pockets of whatever other sweets he’d had stashed away in his pockets, and he only gets more excited when he sees the way those sky blue eyes light up at the sight. He promises to bring the other boy more later, because Lenny’s aunt gets some of the best stuff in town. He doesn’t mention the job, because he sees the tears and holes in the other kid’s clothes and his overall scruffy look.

Vaguely, he makes a note to check when he’ll be getting his allowance next.

His thoughts backtrack, though, when they finally exchange names, and he’s met with abrupt laughter.

“James Buchanan?” the other boy— _Steven_ , his name is—shouts out in a hoot, looking all too amused while James’s face flushes.

“ _Barnes_ , James Buchanan Barnes. Buchanan’s my middle name,” he grumbles, as though that makes it better. Steven’s still laughing, though he tries to quiet down when he notices James’s annoyance.

“That’s a dumb name,” he says bluntly, and James immediately regrets ever offering to help him.

“See if I share my candy again,” he snaps, all too ready to stand up and walk away in a huff, candy be damned.

Except, before he even gets a chance to move, cold palms are cupping his jaw as thin, spry fingers dig into his cheeks a little.

James makes a small, indignant noise as Steven holds him in place, forcing them to stare at each other eye-to-eye for what feels like ages. Steven watches him with such deep intent, while James just feels bewildered. His shock doesn’t fade even when Steven expression morphs from intense focus to gleeful amusement, and he doesn’t move even when the hands holding his jaw slip away.

“Bucky,” Steve says, almost triumphantly, after a moment’s pause. “You’re Bucky.”

James blinks, brain slow as snails as he tries to process what he just heard. He’s only just comprehended what Steve’s said before his mouth is moving again without a thought.

“Okay,” he says. Then, after a beat, “You’ll be Steve then.”

Steven tilts his head, intrigued, before smiling.

“Steve. I like it.”

Steve’s baby blues glitter in the dawning evening sun, and Bucky Barnes thinks yeah, Steve’s a good guy.

-

Steve Rogers is a righteous man.

He doesn’t give Bucky a whole lot of reasons to question it, but he does give plenty reasons him to question his _sanity_.

“Third time, Steve,” he bemoans as he drags his best friend out of an alley by the arm. “Third time this _week_. When’re you gonna stop picking all these fights, huh?”

“Shaddup,” Steve grumbles in lieu of an actual response.

He makes a half-hearted attempt at yanking his arm away, but he knows it won’t work. Even years later, at age 15, he’s still scrawnier than Bucky, and the difference between them is only growing more noticeable as they age out of childhood. Bucky’s Pa has him joining wrestling clubs and eating like a champ.

Meanwhile, Steve can hardly breath right.

It sure as hell ain’t fair, Bucky thinks, for a stand-up guy like Steve to have so many damn health problems, but he’d throw his shoes into the river before he even thought of saying anything. He knows how much just mentioning it can upset Steve, so he’ll keep his lips zipped for as long as he’s gotta.

“What was it this time, huh?” he asks instead.

Because it’s always something, some small but significant thing to break the fragile threads of Steve’s patience and launch him into a fight. He’s not one to throw punches with those small fists of his outta nowhere, even it very much seems that way. Bucky’s learned over the years that it doesn’t take some great show of outrage to send Steve over the top, but what does is no less important to him anyway.

More often than not, it’s something about his Mammy. Something about her being too independent, or too Irish, or too Catholic. Sometimes they’ll dig at the fact that she’s a widow, or that she’s working as a nurse with no family or funds to her name. People are cruel to her for reasons Bucky can’t fathom—really, there’s not a person Bucky knows who’s stronger than Sarah Rogers, except maybe Steve.

Other times, it’ll just be kids picking on Steve for something or another. There’s plenty of fodder for bullying material in Steve Rogers, whether it’s his tiny stature or his shitty lungs or his broken eyes and ears. And just when Bucky thinks he’s seen or heard it all, some half-wit dickbag from Bensonhurst will pick out another supposed ‘flaw’ in Steve that’s as petty as pine.

He doesn’t just watch out for his own though. Steve’s adamant about standing up for anyone and anything, even at his own expense. Bucky’s seen him stand between crippled kids and dock jocks, between sweet dames and the sleazy bar-hoppers preying on them, and hell, even between a stray dog on the road and a construction worker pushing it aside.

He’s fought with people on Bucky’s half before plenty a time before too, often taking to spitting insults the second he thinks someone’s even looking at him in the wrong way. Bucky’s never been quite sure how to explain that he doesn’t need his honor being protected by an asthmatic runt like Steve, best friend or not.

It’s not like it happens all too often anyway. Not to toot his own horn, but Bucky’s got his fair share of popularity and likability amongst the crowd. He gets on well enough with his classmates, and dames turn a sweet eye to him more often than not.

Sure, sometimes that breeds a little jealousy, one that manifests in the form of nasty little rumors that fade fairly quickly or dumb nicknames that never quite stick around. But Steve always takes it so damn personal, like any of those petty insults really matter in the big scheme of things.

It’d be sweet, if it wasn’t so damn annoying.

“C’mon,” he tries again when Steve says nothing. “What got you so ready to bite off Ernie McAllister’s head today, huh? What shit’d he say this time?”

“Didn’t you have a date?”

The sharp change of subject’s enough to jerk Bucky back a little, make him stumble in his tracks as he reels from the suddenness of it all. Steve’s barely looking at him, all grouchy and sullen like he always gets when Bucky drags him away from a fight, but somehow it just feels different now.

“Huh?” he asks dumbly, and Steve spares him a glance—a flat, unamused glance.

“Your date, Buck, with Susie Linden.”

“Oh. Right.” Bucky shrugs, half-hearted. “We, uh, called it a day early.”

In reality, Bucky had rushed away from her as soon as he caught word of Steve causing trouble in the back alleys again. He feels a little bad for her now—he’d given her nothing but a rushed explanation and a brief kiss on the cheek—but he figures it’s all for the best.

She’s not the brightest dame, and the time they spent at the skating ring had dragged on for what felt like years ‘cuz of it. Bucky only really asked her out because everyone said she’d been making goo-goo eyes at him for weeks now, and it felt only fair to give her a shot.

“Thought you liked her,” Steve says, oddly ambivalent in a way Bucky doesn’t know how to interpret.

So he doesn’t, releasing his grip on Steve’s wrist to throw an arm over his shoulder instead.

“She was alright,” he says eventually, after what was probably too long a silence.

All the other guys at school would probably rip his throat out for saying that. Bucky’s never been one to be all that picky with the dames he takes out, choosing to instead ask out whoever seems interested. It’s how he’s been doing it for a couple years now, ever since his Pa told him that he was supposed to start looking at gals now and his classmates started sneaking in some provocative magazines to look at between third and fourth period.

Really, his peers would probably think that Susie Linden’s the catch of the decade, would gawk at Bucky for even thinking of blowing her off. She’s got it all, after all: pretty, blonde, and petit in a way that just makes a guy wanna protect her forever. Not to mention, she’s got these twinkling blue eyes that always seem to light up when she looks at Bucky.

It’s a shame, then, she’d been such dull company.

“You ever gonna tell me why ya got yourself beat up this time?” Bucky says, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “What coulda been so important you had to cause trouble _again—_ ”

Steve trashes suddenly in Bucky’s hold, so abrupt and rough that it shocks Bucky into letting him go. He stares, wide-eyed, as Steve takes a step back from him and glowers. With his lip bloodied, cheek bruised, hair tousled, and clothes rumpled, Steve looks like the epitome of pure chaos, but dear god—those _eyes_.

There’s something akin to pure fury in his glassy blues, an expression Bucky’s rarely, if ever, seen pointed towards himself. Except, Steve’s not looking at him for very long. Almost as quickly as a train passing by, Steve’s averting his eyes so that that fierce glower goes to the ground instead. His fists curl up into balls by his sides, and suddenly he just looks so, so small.

Inexplicably, there’s a surge of protectiveness welling up in Bucky’s gut. He wants to comfort Steve, apologize for no good reason so long as that sweeps clean the embroiled rage on his face. The instinct only grows when some passing random that’s walking by bumps shoulders with Steve, nearly toppling his skinny frame over. Bucky wants to wrap his arms ‘round him, steady him, be the rock to his chaos.

But he can’t.

They’re in a crowded street, and they really outta get going. Bucky still doesn’t really know who Steve’s mad at—Bucky, himself, or someone else entirely—and there’s a sort of frailty to them right now. It feels like one wrong step’ll make Steve lash out, or worse, walk away.

Bucky tries not to think about how much that’d hurt.

Instead, he clears his throat, loud enough to make Steve slowly look up from the pavement in curiosity.

“Wanna go to the candy shop?” Bucky asks, quiet as he is pleading.

A second passes, but it feels like minutes.

And then, the corner of Steve’s lip quirks up.

“Sure.”

Days later, when the incident is almost entirely out of Bucky’s head, he’ll discover what it was Steve had been fighting about that time.

Apparently, some of the whelps in school had gotten so envious of Bucky, they’d sought to spread some rumors. It shouldn’t have been so outrageous, because it already happened plenty of times before and Bucky had stayed none the wiser.

This time had been different.

Bucky Barnes couldn’t keep a lady, they said. He jumps between partners so often, like he needs a different dame to dance with day after day. Now why’s that? Maybe, just maybe, it’s ‘cuz he’s not looking for company in gals at all.

Whispers fill the air, and though the rumors hardly last a day or two— _Barnes, a fairy? You’re nuts!—_ something about them make Bucky’s chest seize up unimaginably tight. He thinks of Steve, weak, feisty Steve, throwing punches and getting beat for him. He thinks of Steve defending his honor at the first opportunity, even if it meant getting wailed on in the process. 

Bucky thinks of Susie Linden, and how he stood her up without second thought to get check up on his best guy.

Steve Rogers is a righteous man.

Bucky apologizes the next day and takes Susie out for a second date the day after.

-

Steve Rogers is a stubborn man.

He’s never quite liked to rely on anyone, Bucky knows that. For the most part, he tries to respect Steve’s boundaries, tries to hold back with his help no matter how much it kills him inside. He knows showering Steve with assistance isn’t the way to go, knows it’ll only drive him away.

Bucky’s one of the few people who treats him like a person, after all. The docs he sees treat him like a charity case, while the guys at the docks look at him like he’s nothing, just air in the wind. Even the clients Steve does illustration for don’t think much of him, avoid meeting him in person as long as they can avoid it. Gals never take a second glance at him, which is a damn shame because if they did they’d see there’s so much to discover.

But no, no one takes a serious gander at Steve Rogers besides Bucky Barnes and his own mother.

Except, now one of them is no more.

Bucky always liked Steve’s Mammy. Sarah Rogers was as loud and proud as her son, and there was something so admirable about the way she forged her own path and let no one stop her. There wasn’t a single person for her to fall back on—she just had herself and her only son, and yet she made it work.

She broke her back working hours and hours and hours as a nurse. She supported Steve every single way she could, even if it meant losing some of herself to do it. She never took anything laying down, finding ways to push on even when there seemed to be no way to go forward.

Even as she declined, she never quite lost her spunk. Even in hospital beds, she’d been cracking jokes and snapping retorts without a care in the world for repercussions. She’d coo and cry and cackle with an Irish-tinged accent, one that never quite went away even after years on this side of the Atlantic.

But now she’s gone, and Steve’s a mess.

He tries to hide it. He tries to hide in general. He hides his emaciated frame in baggy, crumpled suits. He hides his under-eye bags with overgrown hair he can’t afford to cut. He hides his suffering behind tight-lipped smiles and

Bucky wants no more of it.

“Thank you Buck,” Steve says, barely able to meet Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky’s almost glad he can’t, because he’s not sure he can bear to see the usual shine of Steve’s sweet baby blues gone away, their usual twinkle disappeared and replaced by a dull pain.

“But I can get by on my own.”

Bucky brings a hand up to the crook of Steve’s shoulder and neck, his fingers delicately cupping his nape, and he tries not to startle at the sharp pressure of bone against his palm. He tries to ignore the chill of Steve’s skin, even through the layers of ill-fitted garments. He tries to ignore the sharp sorrow and rage rushing through him, laced with a shame he doesn’t want to explain.

“The thing is…” he says instead, quiet as though they’re sharing a secret. Perhaps they are. “You don’t have to. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal.”

Steve’s lips quirk up into a small, sad smile. Bucky returns it with one of his own, and tries to ignore the way the expression tears through his heart.

Steve Rogers is a stubborn man, but Bucky has enough patience to last.

-

Steve Rogers is an ambitious man.

That’s the nicest way Bucky can put it, as he sees what must be the hundredth of Steve’s fake enlistment forms.

“So you’re from Jersey now, huh?”

He knows he sounds disappointed, and that’s because he is. Fucking Steve, so damn willing to stick his neck out and risk his life for a war they shouldn’t even be fighting. So damn ready to throw himself into fighting, without sparing a single thought for the people who don’t want him out there, who need him to be safe at home, who can’t bear to see him die.

The people like Bucky.

Steve doesn’t have the mind to look embarrassed, though, or even the tiniest bit abashed. Instead, he looks Bucky up and down with these prying eyes that make Bucky wanna squirm and run away. The feeling only gets worse when he sees curiosity glimmer across Bucky’s eyes.

“You get your orders?”

Bucky tells him, because of course he does. He can’t hide it from Steve, not when he’s shipping out tomorrow, out to his very-likely doom. He’s heard the horror stories from the boys out there, and his own Pa’s stories from the Great War are still fresh in his head. Complete carnage out there, on the European front, and it’s no great stretch to say that Bucky’s probably not coming back.

And yet, Steve looks so _proud_ of Bucky, for doing what he can’t, what he’s so damn willing to do. Bucky’s fighting for his country, against the bad guys, Steve would think. Bucky’s brave and valiant, and Steve should be right out there joining him.

What’s worse, is that he thinks Bucky volunteered for this.

Bucky tears up Steve’s fake enlistment papers, and wishes he could do the same to his draft.

They’ll go out to the Stark Expo, see the future that Bucky’s sure he won’t live to see. It’ll get his mind off things, off Steve, so that he’ll be fresh in acceptance the second he gets up the next morning. He’s found two spot-on dames to take dancing with ‘em, even if Steve’ll probably ditch after an hour or two.

It’s a hopeless distraction, but one Bucky clings to nonetheless.

“Can we stop by the candy shop on the way back?” Steve asks as they step out of that theatre back-alley.

“Sure, pal.”

Only hours later, Bucky’ll catch Steve trying to enlist again, and he won’t try to hide his hurt this time. The booze in his blood makes his lips run, while the fear in his heart makes his eyes tremble. Steve’ll look at least a little remorseful this time. There’s a certain desperation in his eyes when he tells Bucky to be careful, as though he wants to plead for him to come back.

But it’s too late.

The next morning, Bucky awakes hungover in some dame’s bed, and it’s a hell of a feat to just make it to the ports on time in one piece. His mind’s racing with a million thoughts, but vaguely, in the back of his mind, he takes relief in know that the enlistment office at Expo definitely rejected Steve once more, just like all of them have before.

Steve Rogers is an ambitious man, but damn if Bucky isn’t glad the world won’t agree to his ambitions.

-

Steve Rogers is a frail man.

It’s a fleeting thought Bucky has, day four of being strapped to this damn table. Or wait, is it day two? Day six? He sure as fuck doesn’t know anymore. Time’s a blur, has been since he’d been brought down here. It hadn’t been nearly as bad, back when he was just up in the cells with the other shitheads from the front.

But now he’s alone, with nothing but the needles they stick in his arms and the scientists who talk about him and at him, but not to him, and so the minutes become hours and the days become seconds.

No one ever said war didn’t fuck a man up.

It’s almost laughable, that all Bucky can think about now is Steve. _Stevie_ , as the tiny little voice in the corner of his mind says. He’d never had the courage to say the nickname out loud, no matter how many times he wanted to. It’d sound so sweet on his tongue, he just knew it, but that didn’t matter when it’d be instantly embittered by Steve’s shocked revulsion.

But now, he’s on his own with nothing but his own messed up head, so he can think about Stevie all he wants.

Stevie, who’s all skin and bones, with barely enough fat to survive a cooling breeze, let alone the biting winter. He should have more money now—he’d been getting more clients, since the time Bucky left—but he’s so God-awful at remembering to eat. Bucky wouldn’t be surprised to see bags and bags full of rotting crap in his cupboards, just because he forgot he needed to consume things to live.

And if he didn’t faint from the lack of food, he sure as hell would from the anemia.

God, and Bucky sure hopes he isn’t still hunching over so damn much when he works. Sarah Rogers taught Steve plenty, but decent posture sure as hell wasn’t one of those things. Between that and the scoliosis, he always look like he was two seconds from snapping his spine straight in half. Not to mention, if he didn’t break his own back, some jerk picking a fight with him sure as hell would.

Fuck, just the thought of it all has Bucky’s eyes watering up.

Then, the white coats are coming in again, more needles in hand, and Bucky’s eyes are watering for a whole other reason.

Who knows how much time passes after that? Bucky sure as hell doesn’t, as he stares up at that molding ceiling with his eyes wide as saucers. He thinks he hears loud noises from above, but that could just be his imagination. Everything’s muddled in his ears anyway, past the ringing and thrumming in his head.

His lips are moving and his throat’s working, but he can’t even hear the words spilling from his own mouth. Are they words? Could be utter nonsense, as far as he knows. Kinda hopes it is, so those German bastards don’t have the chance to hear anything incriminating.

He especially hopes he never said Stevie’s name in front of them.

The banging and shouting and everything else fades away after a while, and then someone’s coming in. It’s the scientist, the main one—small and stocky with beady eyes and wicked smile. Bucky doesn’t see him now, gaze still fixated on the ceiling over them, but he can tell by his voice. Rushed, squeaky German fills the air, and Bucky’s fairly certain he’s cursing. No real telling, though, and he can’t think to ask when something’s being stuck in him again.

Heat. That’s the first thing he feels: a scorching fire running through his veins that makes him scream so loud he doesn’t hear the scientist leave. But seconds later, just like that, it’s gone, leaving him endlessly numb and floaty at the same time. His lips are moving again, and he has just enough consciousness to make out the numbers he’s saying. Why he’s saying them, he’s not too sure, can’t think past the cloud in his mind to remember why they’re important, but he says them anyway.

Then, someone arrives.

The ringing in Bucky’s ears must be getting worse, because he hadn’t heard this one come in at all. It’s a man, and he’s the opposite of the scientist: tall, looming, muscular with a deep voice that Bucky can only barely make out. He only half pays attention

The name’s spilling out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“Steve?”

It can’t be Steve, because Steve’s tiny and skinny and weak and can’t be anywhere near the war. He’s back in Brooklyn, drawing for whoever’ll pay and living his life. Maybe he’s even found himself a nice girl, now that he doesn’t have to compare to Bucky. Either way, he’s back home safe, and the face in front of him is that of a complete stranger, backlit by the most beautiful glow.

Except, Bucky knows those blue eyes.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were… smaller.”

The ringing in Bucky’s ears hasn’t stopped, nor has the numbness in his veins, but there’s no time to think about that. They need to escape, he’s told, and they don’t have much time to do that. It’s not long before Bucky’s being pulled away from the room, arm slung over a broad, unfamiliar shoulder as he stumbles to get by.

Steve Rogers is a frail man, so this being in front of him most definitely can’t be him.

Bucky follows him anyway.

-

Captain America is the perfect man.

He’s righteous and strong and undefeatable. He can take down a hundred men on his own, and he wields guns like he was born for it. He can run miles and miles without so much as breaking a sweat, and he can lift three people with one hand. He’s an icon, of freedom and patriotism and pure spirit.

He’s supposed to be Steve. Bucky doesn’t know what to think.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” the Captain says, looking like he wants to collapse.

They’ve stopped for the night, the men saved too weary to keep marching towards the encampment even if they’re still in enemy territory. They were allowed a few hours rest, before they had to get going again. It hadn’t been long after they’d stopped before Bucky was being dragged away into a private tent.

Captain America’s best friend, they all said, and not a single person batted an eye.

Bucky had listened, weary and woozy, to the Captain’s explanations. Something, something, serum or whatever. He hears a few names that sound familiar but mean nothing to him. He waits and waits for the Captain to finish, and God, doesn’t the floor just look so inviting right now?

“…uck? Bucky!”

The shout’s enough to jolt Bucky to attention, as though a Commanding Officer was ready to dole out punishments if he was just an inch out of line. But it’s no one but Captain America, looking at him with this plaguing concern tainting that painfully familiar face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, gripping Bucky’s shoulder with a tight grip. His hand is wide and warm, so foreign it makes Bucky shrink. “You must be tired. Rest, I’ll catch you up in the morning.”

Bucky should protest, should at least pretend to be aware, but he can’t deny the way his eyelids have grown heavy, can’t deny the stinging in his eyes and the weight of his still-numb limbs.

So, on the cold, merciless forest floor, he sleeps.

When he awakes hours later, it’s not to that blackened ceiling and flickering fluorescent light he’d gotten so used to. Instead, he opens his eyes and sees nothing but the sky above him, brightening each second by the sun starting to rise in the east.

He turns his head and sees shining blue eyes on him already.

“’Morning Buck. Sleep alright?”

Not a dream, then.

Steve is talkative as they make their way back to base, and Bucky almost wonders if he should tell him that there’s not usually this much chatter during a march, especially in enemy territory, But they’re not out of Allied territory for all that long, and truth be told, it’s a bit of a comfort to have that useless banter that’s so comfortable and familiar even as Bucky’s world crashes in around itself.

For that short time, things almost feel normal. Sure, now he has to look up to see Steve’s face now. Sure, that hulking body is like nothing Bucky could have ever imagined. And sure, nothing about any of this feels real or normal and _possible_. But Steve’s eyes are still the same, his jokes are still awful, and he still acts like the same reckless, stupid, but passionate twerp Bucky’s always know.

And it’s selfish, but it’s not lost on Bucky how good this could be, if it is real. No more health problems. No more scarlet fever, no heart palpitations, no asthma. Steve could be fit as a fiddle—or even more so, if his stories about self-healing are true. Plus, he’s not back home struggling to make rent or getting punched up by the local dickbats. He’s here, with Bucky.

Yes, he’s in so, so much danger than ever before, but he’s so much stronger than before too. Not to mention, he has Bucky by his side again, to watch over him and keep him safe with every breath, blink, and heartbeat.

There’s so much wrong with this, but the small, selfish part of Bucky thinks that this is almost perfect.

Then, Bucky sees her.

Or rather, he sees how Steve sees her. His eyes light up, brighter than anything Bucky’s ever seen of him before, as he waits and waits for her approval. He keens for her praise, hopeful and ecstatic for just a few words.

And she reciprocates—prim and proper and yet so endeared to Steve in a way gals never had been before. Bucky hasn’t the darndest of who she is, but that doesn’t matter. She commands respect with just her very existence, and that fact doesn’t get lost on him. She’s someone important, someone strong, and yet she sees Steve—not Captain America, but Steve—and melts.

The numbness returns, but Bucky doesn’t think it’s because of the scientists anymore.

Later, he’ll drink more than his weakened body and curled up stomach can handle, and he’ll play at being friendly with the bastards that should’ve died with him in those cells. They’re all haunted spirits with a kindred pain, and it’s not entirely unpleasant downing beers and singing merry songs with the whole lot.

But it’s not too long before that’s all too much for him. Back before the war, he loved himself some good merriment, but this wouldn't be the first thing the war's taken from him. He's quick to make his escape, especially when he sees that Captain America’s making his way over. Bucky flees without a thought, stumbling to the bar to get another drink but still staying in earshot to hear what the good Captain wants.

It's not all that surprising to see that he's asking the men to lay down their lives for him. It's even less surprising to see them all agree. They're an excitable lot, easy to rile up with the right words, and it was only a matter of time before they were swept up into the business of killing Nazis again. Of course, Bucky can’t escape it forever either, and when Captain America finally stops at him, he plays it off as much as he can. Whiskey in hand and shoulders shrugging, he lets the lilting words that spill from his lips invoke a familiarity and bond that Bucky isn't even sure if they have anymore.

“That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him.”

Steve. _His_ Stevie.

An interruption couldn’t come sooner, but Bucky still can’t help but feel disappointed when it does, especially when it comes in the form of a tight dress and sinfully red lips.

They walk away to the dance floor, and Bucky retreats into the shadows. He doesn't see, though, those glittering blue eyes scouring the crowds, searching for him only minutes later. They don't see him, just as he doesn't see them. Instead, he disappears into the night, only just managing to stumble into his barracks and not pass out on the encampment grounds. As he forces some water down his throat and collapses onto bed, he closes his eyes and lets the image of shining blonde hair and bright, pearly smiles play across the back of his eyelids. 

Captain America is the perfect man, and now he has an equally dazzling gal at his sides.

Bucky falls into a dreamless slumber.

-

Steve Rogers is a lucky man.

The air is crisp around Bucky as he plummets. Lord knows how deep this ravine is, because it feels like he’s been falling for centuries. The train tracks and bridge above him feels so far away, growing smaller by the second, but still the ground has yet to come. The pressure of the air around him feels like it’s cutting lines into his skin, and yet all he can think of is glimmering baby blue irises.

Steve’ll live. He’ll win this damned war, and work to make sure nothing like this ever happens again. Sure, he’ll be besides himself with grief and guilt at first, Bucky knows that, but he’ll get over it. He has Carter to help him get over it, after all. Then, once they’ve won the war and kicked all the Nazi asses they can find, they’ll settle down. Get married, start a family, and live out of the rest of their lives together.

Even with children, Carter probably won't stick around as just a housewife. She'll probably keep working in the government, while Steve might take a humanitarian job. Something to make sure this sort of war never happens again. Or, he might stay in the military. Plenty of uses for a specimen like Captain America, even if they’re not actively at war. Either way, they'll be a pair to behold: the golden couple born out of the worst of wars.

Bucky does hope Steve keeps doing art, though, even if it’s just on the side. He’d always been so damn good at it, it’d be a shame for him to ever stop.

The sound of the train above is completely gone now, and all Bucky can hear is the sound of air rushing past his ears. He's not screaming, not anymore. Stopped what felt like ages ago, when he realized it'd do him do damn good at all. The ground’s still so far away, but Bucky closes his eyes and waits for the earth to take him anyway.

Steve Rogers is a lucky man, and Bucky’s just so damn glad for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was in the mood for plenty of angst so heres some big sad hours :)))
> 
> (side note: hope yall are staying safe and healthy rn!)


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